Destiny
by ingridarcher
Summary: Outlaw and conman Malcom Graves finds a business partner in the man that he would come to know as Twisted Fate. Two years after their meeting, Graves gets them both in over their heads when he steals a Zaunian businessman's money—and his wife.


**DESTINY**

Every man has a tell.

Lots o' folk, from card to gospel sharks, like to think they're unreadable—infallible. That's the real con; the way people con themselves. Men like me, we just got to know where to look. Once I find your tell—and believe me, it's easier to find than you think—you're in the palm o' my hand.

A gal named Minnie told me one time after a tumble, "All people are the same, Malcolm. Guys try to be tough, and us girls, we try and be coy, but underneath all that bluster we're just folks, and folks crave company. No matter how callous we get on the outside, when we meet someone new we're always cautiously optimistic."

It was the best piece o' advice a conman could ever get. Unfortunately for Miss Minnie, I paid her back for it by emptyin' her jewelry box while she was asleep, but I never forgot what she said. It was true enough about me.

See, I got a tell, and I'm even goin' to give it up. It's my foot, see; when I get nervous or excited, I used to wiggle it somethin' fierce. I trained it down since then—now all I do is wiggle my toes, and sittin' up at a table lookin' at your cards, no man's gonna notice a little toe wigglin'. That's why I never bet my boots, no matter the stakes.

Now, I know this man across me has a tell because I know _every_ man has a tell, but after 3 hours o' play I'll be damned if I know what it is. We both caught each other hand-muckin' early in the game, and after that it's been all honest play; them's is odds I don't much like. Normally I like to make a game last as long as possible, lose a few on purpose, get 'em invested, clean 'em out, let 'em buy back in, that kind o' thing, but I'm man enough to admit that for the first time in years I might actually lose a card game. I have to end this quick, and Lady Luck had given me the hand to do it.

5-card draw. Sixes wild. The poor bastard deals me the ace o' clubs and the six o' diamonds, then another ace, another six and a deuce on the draw. Now, a deuce kicker ain't goin' to do you any good, but it don't need to when you're sittin' on four aces. I wiggle my toes instead o' smilin'. I'm gonna stomp this cowboy into the ground; I almost feel sorry for him.

He's across the table lookin' at his hand; or maybe he's lookin' at me, I can't really tell with the brim o' that hat so damn low. The bar's normally loud with drunks and scabs and bar-girls, but our game's got 'em quiet; just the clink o' glasses and the low buzz o' murmurin' voices. Even the line gals have clammed up, leanin' over the second floor railin' to watch, their tits poppin' out o' their petticoats like oysters out o' their shells.

The man across me counts up eight-large worth o' chips and snaps 'em stack by stack into the center o' the table, almost gentle-like. I gotta wriggle my toes to keep from grinnin' wide. He's big, more than half his chips big, but he ain't as big as me, and that means that he's goin' to follow me into this if I lead him. So I take a second to pretend I'm thinkin' hard about it, as if I got anythin' to lose with a hand like this, then I push my whole pile into the center and say "All in," my chips spillin' over onto his with a clatter, mussin' up all them neat stacks. He don't even twitch, but I like to think he's sweatin' under the brim o' that hat. There's about 20 seconds o' breathless silence from all the bar patrons who've been watchin' the game, then he takes the bait and calls.

I don't have to wriggle my toes this time; all I've got to do is grin from ear to ear and drop my cards face-up on the table. I'll give the boy credit; he don't even blink. Most people who lose 12,000 creds in a single poker game turn red and want to take it outside, but this boy is like stone as I reach across the table to scoop up that fat pile o' chips. Instead he holds up a hand, palm at me, and I stop. His cards ain't down on the table; he's still holdin' 'em. He lays one down face up—it's the ace o' hearts.

I lean back.

The next card he puts down is the six o' clubs and my heart jumps into my throat. He puts down the six o' spades next, and now my whole leg is shakin' like a rattler's tail. When he lays the ace o' spades I've got to grab onto the edge o' the table or I might fall out o' my chair.

I'm done; all the money I cleaned out o' this shithole burg, every penny I own, is on this table. Even if I manage to get to the next town over, I'll have nothin'. Most folks don't know this, but it's a lot harder to pull a con when you're flat broke to begin with. People expect you to rip 'em off because you need it, but folk never reckon a rich man to cheat 'em out o' their money. Guess most people don't know how men get rich.

In any case, I was about to be in a real bad way, because whatever that last card o' his is, it's gotta be better than my measly deuce. He's lookin' at me, at least I think he is, and he's wearin' this quiet little smirk. I could punch it off his face right now, I'm so boilin'. He chuckles once, a quiet, breathy sort o' sound, then lays the two o' hearts.

The joint explodes, cheers and whoops, and I'm right up there with 'em, hollerin' my lungs out. Before I know it I'm on the other side o' the table slappin' this boy on the back, shakin' his hand and tellin' him what a damn good game he played.

"Hell with the rest, friend, with a hand like that, we gotta call it here! I ain't never matched a game like that against no one, and we can't well ruin it!" He turns his head so the light falls on his eyes. They're brown. He's smilin', and the smile crinkles those eyes up around the edges. It's a good sign.

"Couldn't agree more," he tells me, and I wiggle my toes instead o' sighin' a big, old sigh o' relief. I'm a greedy son o' a bitch, but even I know my limits. Me and this man here are evenly matched, I can tell, and I don't like them odds.

"Let me buy you a drink, stranger," I tell him, then snap my fingers at the less-than-comely barmaid, "Here, darlin'! Two shots o' whiskey, one for me and one for...y'know, I never did catch your name..."

"Emilian," he tells me in a smooth espresso voice, still smirkin', "Emilian Fate." I reach out my hand and we shake like proper folks.

"Fate, huh? Well, ain't that a kick in the dick! Name's Graves, Malcolm Graves, and it's mighty fine to meet you, Emil—can I call you Emil?" Emilian nods, openin' his hands palm up. It's another good sign; it means he trusts me. Means I can trust him at least a little; probably about a second drink's worth. So I grab the old barmaid's arm when she walks by again, ask her if the bartender in red is her sister when I know it's her daughter, then ask her for 2 more shots.

Few hours later and Emil's got 3 shots and 5 beers worth o' my trust, which is more than most men get. He shouldn't, seein' how he turns out to be a card shark and conman just like myself. We'd been exchangin' stories about heists and hustles and all the women in between, talkin' real low then laughin' real loud, and finally I slap my hand on the table and tell him what I've been thinkin' all night.

"Y'know, there's two types o' people in this world, Emil; ones who believe in coincidence and ones that believe in _destiny_," I say, "I'll tell you what kinda man I am, Emil, I'm the kind that believes everything happens for a reason, and that's why I think we were meant to meet each other in this here bar tonight. Those cards? Those _perfectly_ matchin' hands after one o' the most intense poker games I ever had in my life? That was destiny's way o' tellin' us we ought to work together; and I've always said... 'don't mess with destiny'! What do you say?"

Emilian gives me an appraisin' look, almost as if he can't believe I'm serious. I hold up my hands in appeal. "No, look son, think about it; we've both been runnin' cons solo, and you know the score. People don't trust a lone man waltzin' into a town, and you can't be in two places at once, but with a partner? One's charmin' the bankers while the other's crackin' the safe? One's entertainin' the mayor while the other's entertainin' the mayor's _daughter_? Think o' the possibilities!" Emil shakes his head at me, chucklin' his low, soft chuckle.

"Destiny, hm? Tell me, Malcolm Graves..." he begins, "what do you know about magic?"

I must have made a face at him because he looks a little sheepish. I smile. "Not a damn thing," I tell him truthfully. He seems disappointed for only a moment, then smirks at me again.

"I think you're right, Malcolm Graves—" he's been callin' me by my full name all night, "—I too believe that everythin' happens for a reason. In the name, after all. So, sure - _Laissez le bon temps rouler_."

"I don't know what the hell that means, but it sounds good to me," I snarl, chucklin' hoarsely and liftin' up my murky shotglass. Emilian clinks his to mine and we both down 'em, then slam 'em on the table.

"So, Malcolm Graves, we should work out the details," Emil says, coughin' once and lickin' the alcohol off his teeth before takin' a pack o' cards out from his coat pocket, "we'll split the takes - 70/30. My way."

I see a twinkle in his eye as he bridges the cards and I grin under my mustache. The both o' us know this is gonna end splittin' 50/50, because that's how we're matched—evenly. Don't mean we don't spend the next beer and a half negotiatin'. It ain't about the split just like cons ain't about the take and our card game weren't about who won. It's about the game, and for the first time in a long time, I think I found someone who can play it as good as me.

I got the redhead real hard by the hand, but she's gigglin' up a storm so I don't think she minds. I'm laughin' too, rain comin' down like it used to in the spring back in Bilgewater. Never smelled so awful or stung your eyes like the acid rain does in Zaun, but I'm in such a good mood I barely feel it. The redhead, Angie, she's under my duster, jumpin' ginger-like across the puddles. She don't seem used to runnin' in heels; it's a good sign. Any woman pretty as she is who'd marry a fat, worm-lipped swine like Aregor Priggs has got to be a little goal-driven, but somethin' about the pale, pudgy redhead is disarmin'. It's the dimples, I think. Makes me feel like she would never do anythin' real awful on purpose.

We bust into the saloon so hard the door slams against the wall like the bang o' a gun, and everyone looks up with a start; a gunshot ain't exactly an uncommon thing around these parts. They get a look at me with a girl in hand and relax. Everyone goes back to what they're doin'; everyone except Fate. He's givin' me that look from across the room, one I've seen a lot of in the years since our fateful poker game, that look like "what did you get us into this time?" I grin at him. He sighs.

Me and the gal sit down across from Fate, who's got himself a game o' solitaire goin'. Angie moves my duster from over her head to down around her shoulders. I slide my chair a little closer and put an arm around her. Fate smiles at her; you'd have to have known the guy for two years, like I have, to know it's fake. That's alright—I've got good news for him. "And who is this?" he asks. She answers before I can answer for her.

"Angie Priggs," she says and offers her hand palm up, all grace. Emil, always the charmin', mysterious one, turns it over gentle-like and drops a kiss on her knuckles.

"Emilian Fate, at your service, Cheri," Emil answers in that espresso voice o' his, lookin' up at her and grinnin' slow against her fingers. She giggles and blushes; I'll let it slide, but I give her soft shoulder a little squeeze just the same.

"Hey, Darlin', why don't you head up to the bar and grab us all a few drinks, eh?" I ask her. She sighs, rollin' her eyes at me but smilin' anyhow. Those dimples make me want to pinch her cheeks, but I'm all ready a spell older than she is and I don't want to seem like a grandpa. I run my fingers through my hair, too aware o' the grey that's started growin' in. Angie stands, and I eye her plump ass as she sashays over to the bar. She must have noticed, because she bends over it when she gets there, talkin' to the bartender. Fingers snap a few inches from my temple and I turn back to see Emil shootin' me a death glare.

"What?" I ask him, though I got an idea. Fate drops his voice to a low, breathy hiss.

"I told you to go case out the bank for a heist, Malcolm Graves, not go hen hunting. Why is every time you go out by yourself you bring back a dame?"

"That ain't so!" I protest, "Name me the times you told me to do somethin' and I brought a bird back instead."

"I ain't got that many fingers!" Fate answers hotly, and a little louder than he ought. A couple o' patrons turned to look at us, and Fate schools his expression. "Look, we're down to the blanket here; we need money, not tail."

"The _girl's_ the one with the money, Emil," I tell him, "She-" I stop when I see Fate's eyes flick over at the girl at the bar, who's chewin' the fat with the bartender.

"Arry thinks he can fool around on me with those cheap-champagne harlots of his. He swore to love, honor and obey me, but most nights he's up in the city doing Gods know what. I was a Cefrienne before we were wed; we're too respectable to put up with some new-money philanderer in our family, even if it _is_ through marriage. I came into the city to catch him with his pants down, and I go to the bank and they tell me about this...this 'executive' account of mine, how they're so glad to finally meet me, but I've never heard a thing about it. I look at the charges and they're all from nightclubs and bars and massage parlors..."

Fate looks back at me and raises an eyebrow. "So she's married? To some rich man named 'Arry'?" he says, and I'm already up out my seat and marchin' across the room, puttin' my hands on her shoulders.

"On second though, Darlin', how about you let me get the drinks and you just sit over there and look pretty, huh?" I sit the girl across from Fate again, though from the look in his eye I'm not sure I trust her alone with him either. I tell the bartender to forget the drinks just as he lifts the glasses up to hand 'em over, then sit back down next to Angie. I wiggle my toes, decidin' I ought to move the conversation in a more "what's-in-it-for-us" direction. "Right, so that bank account was in Angie's name, y'know, so I just reminded her that all the money in it must belong to her, too. Show him, Darlin'."

Angie smiles her little purse-lipped smile and reaches into my duster. The BT card's small, half the size o' the playin' cards on the table and almost as thin; you'd hardly expect that there's small fortune zappin' around in its circuits. Now, Fate ain't much free with his emotions even around me, except when he was on the Shimmer a few months back, but even Angie can see the way his features relax into bored annoyance when he sees what she has.

"A bank transfer card. You pullin' my leg? You know Mr. Priggs, whoever he is, is gonna wipe the thing before we can move it to another account. Even if he didn't, he'll have it tracked and when we take the money out we'll both be made. Use your head." Fate looks back down at the cards on the table, decidin' solitaire's more interestin' than this proposal.

"No, listen, Fate," I start, takin' the card from Angie's hand, "Why would he make a bank account in his wife's name and not tell her about it?"

"And use it for whoring and drinking?" Fate says casually, "Maybe he's a fan of irony." Angie makes a face.

"Use it for whorin' and drinkin' and dozens on dozens o' small cash deposits from offshore banks," I point out, wigglin' my toes and wavin' the card between my fingers. Fate's hand stops with the jack o' spades atop the queen o' hearts. After a second he snaps the card down and looks up.

"You think he's smurfing." It ain't a question. I can see from the glint in his eye that Fate already knows where I'm goin' with this. "But Zaun banks don't have to involve the law in reclamations-"

"-For any thefts less than 300,000 creds," I finish. The way Fate's eyelids flare make me grin so wide it hurts.

"He _can't _get the money back..." Fate says in almost a whisper, "If he does it'll start an investigation and they'll find out he's launderinh money." He wets his lips. "How much?"

"350 large, made to the beautiful and generous Mrs. Angie Priggs," I tell him, and his brown eyes get big, then they narrow.

"Priggs...I know I've heard that name before," he says, mostly to himself, then looks up at Angie again when he hears her snufflin', a high squeak comin' from her throat.

"Drinking and...and _whoring_," she says, eyes wet with the inevitable tears, "I think I always knew, but put so...so bluntly, I..." She grasps onto my shoulder and starts to wail.

I first met Angie when she was cryin' and that's how I knew from the start that I could trust her; because Angie don't cry pretty. You never, ever, trust a woman who can cry pretty - that kind o' restraint means she's got a lot o' practice cryin' in the mirror. But Angie...Angie cries the way a drunk sailor cries, loud and low and messy. A real cry. Poor gal.

"Arry Priggs," Fate says quietly, puzzlin' it out, totally unmoved by Angie's tears. Then this look o' realization and worry washes over his face. "You mean Doctor _Aregor_ Priggs, of DynaTech," he says. I sigh and rub Angie's arm.

"Yes, _that_ Aregor Priggs," I whisper, harsh-like, "A little sympathy for the lady here? He may be scum but she still loved him."

"That's a dangerous man to steal that much money from, Malcolm Graves," he answers darkly, "A lot _more _dangerous than the bank heist we were planning." I wet my lips and try to adjust myself with this big, cryin' girl on my shoulder, leanin' forward a little.

"Look I was _in_ the bank, casin' the cameras, and there she was, just like this, with a bank statement in her hands. I ask her what's wrong and then she dumps all o' this on me. 350 large, untraceable! It was like it was _meant_ to happen—it was destiny! And you-"

"-Don't mess with destiny, I _know_." He sighs and closes his eyes, pressin' his fingers against his eyelids, "Only two jokers in the deck, and I get dealt _you, _Malcolm Graves. All right, we'll help take your poor girl's money, but I need you to-"

There's another loud bang at the door, and Emil and I turn and see 6 thugs with 6 mean-lookin' weapons in the doorway. When their eyes land on us it's easy to see who they're lookin' for. Fate gives me that look again; I can practically hear him sayin' "Look what you got us into _this_ time, Malcolm Graves." I pull Angie out of her chair and bark at her to get behind the bar. She blinks at me at first, eyes all red and puffy, and feel bad for growlin' at her like I do, but there ain't no time to be gentle.

"Get your ass behind the bar, now!" I roar at her, and she squeaks like a mouse and rushes back to join the bartender and about half the patrons. I reach for a my single-action, then realize it's in my poncho, which is still on Angie's shoulders. I curse under my breath and ready my fists. Fate reaches down into his pockets, and I know he's pawin' for his special deck o' cards, the ones his ma gave him. If he's as nervous as I am, I can't tell.

They start to close in on us, and I hear that familiar sound, like a chef sharpenin' a knife, and my partner's got one razor of a card between his middle and index finger. I can see the front o' the card from beside him. It's the Duke o' Blood. He grins.

With one flick of his wrist this card snaps forward and there's this pop, like fireworks, and then the lot o' them got shreds in their clothin' and bulgin' stripes o' blood across their faces. As Fate reaches for the deck again I hear him whisper beneath his breath "Coin..."

Fate's cards look like playin' cards at first when you look at 'em, especially in the pack, but they ain't an accordin'-to-hoyle 54 set—they're gypsy cards. Gypsy cards are kinda' like tarot cards, with three suits: Sky, Coin, and Blood. Now, most decks are just for fortune telllin' or gypsy card games, but Fate's deck is special. The cards are made o' metal and sharpened at the edges like razors, but that ain't the special thing - they're _magical _cards. Each suit does somethin' different, and no matter how many he throws out in a fight, they're always all back in the pack when we blow the joint. I'd bet my boots on two things: first, them cards have been around a lot longer than Fate and I combined, and second, that they're the reason for Fate's near-obsession with magic.

He pulls out the next card—sure enough it's the Ace o' Coin—and it sinks halfway into a bruiser's shoulder. For a few seconds he's frozen in place, muscles stiff and unresponsive, mad eyes dartin' around in confusion and anger. I've seen it plenty before, Fate even did it to me once, but it still amazes me. Fate gets a few more cards out and leaves a couple o' them limpin' and bleedin' before they surround us, all except one skinny bastard who's fishin' down beneath the bar for Angie.

The others hidin' there, the damn cowards, soon as they find out who the guys are after one of 'em crawls under the counter door and out, the rest followin' like sheep. I see the skinny punk with his hand clasped around Angie's wrist before two walls o' muscle get in my way. One's got freckles, coal-black hair, and a blackjack; the other's blonde with pocked skin and a townball bat. Things are about to get bloody.

I make a grab for Blondie's bat and give the tall bastard a swift uppercut to his craggy, too-square jaw. He stumbles back; from that loud crack, it's probably a little less square now. His fingers are still tight on the townball bat though, and he's holdin' his jaw and starin' death at me. His buddy, Freckles, I see from the corner o' my eye he's settin' to crack my ribs with his blackjack. I manage to get my forearm in the way before it connects, but _damn_ it stings.

I look over long enough to see that Fate's dancin' between three of 'em but ain't doin' much better than I am, so I can't hope for any help. Blondie grabs me by my hair and pulls me back hard. I still got his bat in my paw and neither of us look to be lettin' go. I look up and see Freckles windin' up for another blow, this time at my throat. _So we're fightin' dirty, are we? _I thought to myself, _I can fight dirty._

I kick Blondie in the shins and when he loses his footin' I pull him over top o' me so that Freckles lands a good solid hit on his spine instead o' my neck. The big bastard drops like a rock on top o' me, groanin', his sandy hair way closer to my face than another man's hair ought to be, but he finally lets go of his bat. Now if I can only get his big ass off o' me...

Behind me I hear a crash o' glass and I crane my neck, sure somethin' awful has gotten to poor Mrs. Priggs. To my shock and awe, the girl's holdin' the business end of a '39 scotch, and Skinny's face is wet with liquor, his greasy hair sportin' shards o' glass. I have to smile, but a cry from my left makes it fade. I look over and Fate's on the ground, curled up in a ball and takin' hit after hard hit. The thugs, they got that hungry look, the one men get when bruises ain't enough. When broken bones ain't enough. One of 'em's got a golf club. Another's got a chain.

I have to help him.

I tell Angie to reach into the left pocket o' my poncho, then I hinge the bat on the inside o' my elbow and pry Blondie a few inches off my chest. Freckles looks ready for a fight, but I ain't got time for games. I've got the bat now, and there's a loud clack when I block the blow aimed at my chest. Pain rattles from my white-knuckled fists up into my shoulders and through to my teeth, but I manage to hold the bat across my front.

"This is goin' to tickle," I growl to the bastard, then I give him the dirtiest kind o' fight there is with my steel-toed boot. Freckles squeaks in a satisfyin'ly unmanly way and drops to his knees, clutchin' his crotch.

I get to my feet and look around. Angie's backin' up from the skinny guy, holdin' a dusty Cabernet Savignon in both hands, the register clangin' when her plump ass hits it. Fate's still on the ground, so I grit my teeth and hope her bottle's enough for now. I close the distance between me and the thugs, prepare a hard right swing, and crack the punk with the chain just right on the back of his head. He drops like a rock into his buddy, and I finish the job by jabbin' him between the eyes with the butt o' the bat's grip. The boy with the golf club, he's too damn excited to even notice, and when he swings the bloody iron back again I catch it with one hand.

He turns to look at me, manic and confused, and I swing the bat around to catch him in the gut. He chokes out for breath, coughin' and wheezin', lettin' go o' the club and reachin' for his belly. I drop the bat and help Fate to his feet. That pretty face o' his don't look quite so pretty no more, and his fat lip curls up over his teeth and he socks our golfer straight in the nose. The boy goes down without a fuss. Emilian looks to me now.

I almost grasp the handle o' the club with both hands, because the look on Fate's face tells me he's goin' to punch me next. The click of a hammer bein' pulled back put the kibosh on that, though. We both turn, wide-eyed, at Blondie—he's hunched over, holdin' his back with one hand and holdin' a .44 magnum with the other. Ain't the first time Fate or me have gotten a gun pointed at us, but we don't plan on it bein' our last, so we both put our hands up real slow. I look at Blondie, then I look at Fate. My friend's face, through all that fat black and blue, tells me what I already know. Blondie's got that look that means surrenderin' ain't goin' to help. He don't want to threaten us—he wants us dead.

"Easy, Pardner..." I tell him in a coaxin' voice. Blondie snarls, his gun hand shakin', and he moves the barrel from Emilian to me. His eyes flash, and his finger squeezes the trigger. That bang seems a lot louder than normal, and my ears are ringin' so hard I can't feel the pain. I must have fallen to the ground by now, but I don't want to open my eyes and see the blood. I can't feel it yet; I just smell the gunpowder in the air and feel Emilian elbowin' me. I hear a body hit the ground in front o' me.

_Wait...that ain't right..._

I peel back my eyelids and through the haze I see Mrs. Angie Priggs with my single-action in her hands. She's got this real mean look on her face, but when she notices me noticin' she lowers the revolver, simperin', shaken but impressed with herself. I look down and lift a foot as Blondie's blood starts to pool out across my boots. I can't seem to pick my jaw up from the floor.

"I...I've never shot a gun before..." she says, smilin' a nervous, sheepish smile, "Sorry it took me so long, stupid me, I forgot to take the safety off..." I cackle, leap over the bar and hug the girl so hard I think she might pop.

"Sorry? Girl, you just saved our skins, the last thing I want you to be is sorry!" She giggles as I land a dozen kisses on her neck.

"You know any of these men, Mrs. Priggs?" Fate slurs from behind me, even more serious than usual. Angie notices it too, and pushes me off.

"Yes, indeed," she says quietly, "That one, there, he works for my husband, I've seen him in the house dozens times. He was always so nice to me, and now..." She bites her lip, her eyes wellin' up as she stares at the skinny man slumped over the bar in a puddle o' blood and wine. Fate looks at me, the low light o' the bar reflectin' his brown, narrowed eyes.

"We've got to get out of here."

Angie curls her lip up at the smell o' the alley, and whispers to me that muddy water is gettin' in her shoes and stingin' her toes. I tell her to hush as Emil knocks three times, pauses, then knocks twice. Old Mercer's familiar, craggy face peers out past the chain, green with the light o' the alley's scumglobes. He grunts, shuts the door hard, then opens it back up again, turnin' and walkin' into the run-down gamblin' house. The place was never nice, but it used to at least be good for a few drinks, a game o' cards and a cheap trick. After the sewer floods couple years back, though, it smelled too awful and cost too much to repair. Mercer was near as low as a man could be, with hardly a roof above his head, but Emil had assured me half a dozen times the old man could be trusted. I still weren't so sure.

We get shown to our room 4 floors up where the smell ain't so bad. Angie's stocking feet are paddin' on the dusty carpet, her heels clackin' in her hand. Emil gives the old man the last of our cash in exchange for a shotgun, a nine-mil, the room, and his silence, then Mercer hobbles off down the hall. Soon as he's gone, Emil and I sit down at the room's rotten table and get to business.

"So I know a couple o' boys out on the docks," I begin, "They can ferry us across the strait to Piltover, and from there-"

"Hold on, hold on," Fate says, holdin' his hands up, "You want to _leave_ Zaun?"

I can't quite believe what I'm hearin'. "Of course I want to leave Zaun!" I howl, "We're 350,000 in the red with Aregor Priggs, and he _knows_ it. We almost got shot this afternoon-"

"But we didn't, and now we're in the wind. Zaun's a big place, Malcolm Graves, with a whole bunch of rat holes to hide in—"

"—And a lot o' rats lookin' to fill their pockets," I answer, gettin' to my feet, "Doc Priggs has enough money to pay off half a million hard-luck scabs like Mercer. All it takes is one man in his pocket and we're dead. Besides, if we start flashin' around his cash at any of our old buddies, they're goin' to get a little suspicious."

"We won't spend it then-" Fate begins, but I slam my fist hard against the wall.

"What's the point o' stealin' obscene amounts o' money if we can't spend it?!" Fate gets to his feet, meetin' me nose-to-nose, even though he's half a head shorter than I am.

"You spend it anywhere and it's goin' to get you noticed, Malcolm Graves," he snarls, "If you're so bent up about it give the money back—and the man's _wife_ while you're at it."

"It's too late for that now-" I howl, and when Fate interrupts me his smooth, espresso voice cracks.

"I ain't leavin' Zaun!" he screeched, his eyes wide and wild, far afield from his usual calm. The gears in my brain start to turnin'.

"You're still on the Shimmer, ain't you?" I whisper low, leanin' back, "That's why you don't want to leave, because you can't get that toxic crap anywhere else. I thought I told you to cut that shit out, it makes you crazy."

"It ain't your business what I do with my money, Malcolm Graves," he hisses in a threatenin' tone, pushin' past me and movin' to the door.

"Where the hell do you think you're goin'? We're supposed to be layin' low, Fate!" I growl.

"Sure thing, pops," Fate answers sarcastically, hand on the doorknob.

"You know that bunk about it givin' you magic powers is just somethin' your pusher says to sell that radioactive shit, don't you?" I ask him rhetorically, "Honestly, Fate, what kind o' conman lets himself got conned?"

Fate pauses a moment at the doorway, and for a second I think he might listen, but instead he disappears into the hallway, slammin' the door behind him.

It had been six long hours, and still Emil hadn't come back. Angie and I had a tumble to take my mind off it, but even that couldn't put me to sleep. A red hot iron of a sunrise is peerin' up between the high rises when I hear footsteps on the dirty carpet, and I lift my revolver up and pull back the hammer, naked to the waist and every muscle pulled up tight. Could be Emil... could be Priggs' men. I clench my teeth. Angie's sighin' like a babe on the bed, all curled up under my poncho since she was too prissy to use the old yellow sheet Mercer had left for us. She said she was pretty sure it had been white to start. I tried to tell her otherwise, but I was pretty sure it had been white, too.

The doorknob rattles on its loose screws, and my eyelids go up and a bead o' sweat trickles down my brow. The door creaks open just a crack, and then the barrel of a 9mm peers into the room. It was pointin' at Angie. I get to my bare feet, take two quick steps forward and grab the man's wrist, slammin' it hard against the wall. The gun clatters onto the floor, and I pull back the door to see Emil's boyish, swollen, pained face glarin' at me. I groan and release him.

"The hell was that for, you crazy bastard?!" his hisses, pullin' his hand back and suckin' on his knuckles.

"The hell were you stickin' a gun barrel in here for?" I shoot back. He looks at me from over his hand, indignantly.

"What's the matter?" Angie asks sleepily.

"Nothin'. Go back to bed, baby," I tell her. She pouts sulkily at me, but yawns just the same and says her hello to Emilian before layin' her head back down. Emil watches her, then looks back to me.

"I was checking to make sure you didn't get made in the night is all," he whispers. My hard face softens a little.

"I thought you said you trusted Mercer," I tell him, stuffin' my revolver under the mattress and yawnin'. Emil only rolls his eyes at me, puttin' the nine-mil in the nightstand drawer. I knew what I'd planned to say to him - I'd pushed it around in my head half the night, the way you push your vegetables around on your plate, but now that he's here it's hard to get the words out. I work my jaw. I wiggle my toes, only realizin' after that I didn't have my boots on.

"Look, Emil, I..." I sigh, grabbin' my lighter and smokes, pullin' the cigarette out and turnin' it in my fingers, "I'm sorry about what I said. It weren't my business."

There's this big pause, and then Emil says somethin' I don't think I've ever heard him say before.

"Naw, you...you were right, Malcolm Graves. It's a good take. We'll get Mrs. Priggs out of Zaun, but...tomorrow. There's something I need to do first, been...putting it off. Family thing. I'd tell you about it, only-" I put my hand up to stop him and shake my head, then smile to let him know it ain't a problem. Emilian don't talk about himself much, and I only once heard him talk about his folks. I know whatever it is, it must be hard enough to do, much less go on about.

"Tomorrow night," I tell him, "I'll get a hold o' Jerrick at the docks. We'll say midnight—that enough time?"

I look over and Emil's got his hat off—his long hair's black the way coffee's black, and he's smilin' at me the way he did years ago after that poker game. It crinkles up the edges of his eyes. It's a good sign.

I call up my buddy at the docks and set everythin' up while Emil gets a few winks o' sleep. He leaves in the afternoon, and Angie and I spend the time gettin' to know each other a little better, and I ain't talkin' about chewin' the fat. The sun gets pink and low then gets gone, and finally we peel ourselves outta bed and throw our clothes on, gettin' ready to get to the boat. I'd learned to leave the window open since Angie didn't like the smoke, and I'm standin' next to it with a cigarette listenin' to her go on about bareknuckle boxin'.

"Abiddon isn't a good brawler—doesn't have the chin for it, you know—but Georgey McKellins, _he_ was a great slugger, for real and true," Angie tells me. While she's talkin', I think I hear the clack o' dress-shoe footsteps on the concrete beneath us. Men's voices, maybe, comin' from down below..."I was at the Gregor v. McKellins fight back in '28, and let me tell you, that knockout took my breath away!"

I strain to listen to the muffled voices bouncin' off the bricks from the alley below, distorted with each stone. Cautiously, I step towards the window, leanin' around the sill, and pullin' back the curtains just enough to look down into the alley. There are four guys, all of 'em in the cheap dark suits that "gentleman criminal" types wear. Bad sign. Black shirts, black ties is a worse one; black doesn't show gun residue or bloodstains. Wearin' an all black suit, you can pop a man with a few holes, dab your face with your black silk pocket square and walk out a place like nothin' happened. Assassins. Assassins here for me and Fate. Here for Angie.

"Most people try and tell you that out-fighter's are more skilled, you know, but I _love_ a good brawler. You watch them get all beaten up and bloody, just _aching_ for that one big punch..."

I hiss at her seein' how she didn't have the Gods-damned sense in her head to whisper. She shoots me a sour look, and I tell her to move back—out o' sight. "What's the matter?" she asks, finally startin' to look worried. I peer back out at the alley, and all four of 'em have got their heads inclined up at my window.

"Shit!" I bark, and probably make more of a stir at the curtains than I ought to have, but I'm pretty sure we're past that now. Mercer must've sold us out; he's the only other person who knows we're here. I have to move quick.

I turn the couch and push it up against the door; then the dresser, then the bed. It was a fierce sort o' loud after so many days o' quiet. Angie puts her hands over her ears.

"What's happening?" she whispers, pullin' on her shoes; I can hear her voice hitchin'. She must be shakin'; must be scared out of her head. I keep tellin' myself I didn't talk her into this. That I was gettin' her out o' trouble, not into it.

"Angie," I breath, sweat already ticklin' my brow, "You take that card and go out the fire escape, like I told you. Take the nine. Head for the docks. I should be right behind you, but if I ain't don't wait for me or Emil; soon as the boat comes in, you get your pretty self on it, strait?"

Angie nods, but stands in place; I have to take the 9mm from the drawer and put it in her hands. She's tremblin'. "Go on, get!"

She jumps and skitters off, her heels clackin' haphazard to the window and then clangin' clumsy-like on the gratin' o' the fire escape. She leans in over the sill, her red hair flyin' all about with the white curtains. I can't really see her face. She says somethin' as I slam the nightstand down against the door. I ask her why she's still here, and she repeats herself.

"I said, 'what happens if we get separated?'" she asks as I come closer, open the closet, and take out my shotgun, "What about your cut of the money?"

"There ain't time for that, just _go_ before I think too hard on it," I bark, puttin' two shells in between my teeth and pocketin' the rest o' the box. I chamber 'em, snap the muzzle back, and when I look up again she's gone.

I stand there like a dope for a second thinkin' if I keep lookin' she'll still be there behind them flutterin' curtains, but I can hear her heels clankin' down the fire escape loud and reckless, then quieter and quieter. Goin'...Goin'...

I lean out to get one last look at her and catch a bit o' movement down below. I squint and it's black shirt black tie number 4. He didn't go in with the others. He waited out here to catch our theoretical alternate escape route. He's got his eyes trained on Angie. He reaches into his lapel, and I'll be damned if I'm not 4 stories up holdin' a loaded shotgun like it's goin' to do shit but make noise at that range. So I do the only thing I can think of: I yell like an idiot.

"Angie, look down!" She looks. She screams. A black pistol with a black silencer slides calm-like out from the man's shoulder-holster. I yell again. "The gun, girl, use the gun!" Angie looks at the pistol like she forgot it was in her hand, then closes her eyes and points it down. I groan.

"It's not working!" she cries and I start to holler back at her to take off the safety and cock the damn thing, but I'm interrupted by the chirp of a silenced shot. It ricochets off the fire escape and she squeals and drops to her knees, hands over her head, the gun clackin' down onto the gratin'. I curse and run back inside to get my revolver.

I throw the stiff, greasy bedsheet out o' my way and lift up the mattress. I see the gun as it slides farther back from me movin' the bed. I'm leanin' in to grab it when I hear another silenced shot, then another right after, a quick pair. Angie squeaks and the fire escape clangs like a bell. I curse again, my fingertips brushin' the butt o' my single-action, and then there's a knock - just a knock - on my door. I'm standin' there frozen until they knock again, then I scramble even more for the revolver. My nail catches the texture on the handle just the right way and then the cold metal's in my hand and I suddenly feel a damn sight better about the whole thing.

Another silenced round outside, and I guess Angie must have picked the gun back up because she squeezes off a whole mess o' shots, and then it's an all-out gunfight on the fire escape. They stop knockin' at the door and start tryin' to knock it down; big, wood-crackin' booms. Gotta help Angie first. I rush to the window, my trigger finger itchin', and it ain't until I stick my head out and aim my gun down below that I realize the shootin's stopped.

Nothin's moving. I only notice the dingy green of a scum globe reflectin' on the ground, all marbled and glittery. It takes me a second to really see that it's him; black suit, black blood. He's there, layin' sprawled out like he's tryin' to make a snow angel in his own gore, his gun a few inches from his hand. Angie's gone.

"Well I'll be damned," I say, quiet-like, "Girl had it in her all along."

I got enough time to smirk before I hear the crack o' wood breakin' and I see a splintered vignette of a black tie on a black shirt pointin' the black barrel of a silencer at me. I duck just in time for the shot to whiz over my head; just in time to realize I moved all the cover over to block the door; just in time to remember the shotgun on the ground. The boy at the door reaches his arm in, and I crouch and aim the 12 gauge only as much as I need to. There's a bright muzzle flash, a big old boom, and then the door's peppered with holes and brindled with blood. The ruined arm snakes back out through the hole and the room explodes with gunfire, and I ain't got time to do shit except hit the deck.

Bullets explode over my head, catchin' against my back and arms. Their silencers chirp like a flock o' birds and I can hear the glass shatter and the wood splinter behind me, the metal squealin' above. The clack of a clip bein' ejected gives me the chance I need, and I roll over and pull myself into the closet-sized bathroom. I cock my shotgun, suck in a breath and wait.

The crack o' wood. The crash o' furniture bein' turned over. Black patent leather loafers walkin' across glass. Closer...I need 'em closer. I only got one shot at this, and I gotta catch 'em all in the spray, otherwise they'll unload and I'll be a dead man. Hammers bein' pulled back. Closer now. I crouch down. My heart's goin' like a jackhammer all over the place; my chest, my throat, my wrists, my thighs. That hard, fast tickin', like a stopwatch. 3 seconds. 2...1...

I spin around the door frame and blast from the hip. For a second all I see is the muzzle flash; all I hear is the high, muffled, rollin' squeal o' my ears ringin'. Next thing I know I'm steppin' over a groanin' pile o' black polyester suits. I kick one of 'em on the ground and spit. "Hope you weren't plannin' to die o' natural causes," I growl at him, sneerin'.

I leap out the window and fly like a gattlin' gun down the fire escape, then tear down the alley. My arm's right tore up from the gunfire and it stings somethin' fierce, but I ain't got time to bleed; if I move fast enough, I can catch up with Angie. She'll be tip-toein' around puddles in those heels o' hers. I imagine for a minute pickin' her up in my arms and carryin' her all the way to the docks like some kind o' cowboy. I have to laugh at myself, and I'm so busy chucklin' I trip over a pile o' trash layin' in the alley and hit the pavement. I groan, because the palms o' my hands are all scuffed up, and I've landed in a puddle o' somethin' thick and dark. I grumble, lookin' down at myself. My whole front's wet and sticky, and under the green light o' the scumglobe it looks brown. But there's a smell, somewhere under the stench o' garbage and toxic waste, somethin' metallic. I squint at my hand, and the stuff glitters red.

I near jump out o' my skin at the little sigh comin' from behind me. I aim my shotgun and near blow the girl's head off. The gun is rattlin' in my hands, I'm shakin' so hard. It's Angie; she looks deathly pale. I can't tell if it's the low, green light or the all the blood that's spilled out of her. She's holdin' her stomach, her pretty blue dress all dark and splotchy. She smiles at me.

"Mr. Graves...I...I got him, didn't I? That will teach him to shoot at a CeFrienne..." she says, and her voice is almost too quiet to hear. I move up next to her and pull her into my arms. Her voice sputters, and she slurs the way you do after Novocaine, when your lips feel too big.

"You're a good man, Mr. Graves, much kinder than I gave you credit for. At first I thought, 'I could screw over this penniless lowlife,' but you...you aren't what I thought you were."

"Shhh," I hush at her, knowin' what she's goin' to say and not wantin' to hear it out loud. I want to remember her as that big girl cryin' loud and sloppy on my shoulder. Tip-toein' over puddles in her heels. Gigglin' in the rain, her hand in mine.

"No, I need to say it," she insists, her round face tightenin' in pain, little breaths rushin' through her teeth until she could speak again, "I was never going to give you and Mr. Fate any of that money...I earned it, all of it, laying beneath that swine all those years. I paid for it with my pride, with my _family's_ pride. I hired a man to shoot the both of you once we got to Piltover, but...you aren't who I thought you were, Malcolm...You aren't..."

The cold metal of a silencer presses against the back o' my head, pushin' it forward against Angie's. I don't even jump. It's the end o' the line, and I know it. I'm feelin' numb all over, feelin' like a damned fool for not listenin' to Fate and trustin' some dame instead; for trustin' Mercer to hide us; for trustin' anythin' except my partner and my instincts. What kind o' conman lets himself get conned?

The hit-men are cursin' me up and down, beat to shit holdin' onto whatever body part I'd peppered with my shotgun. There's only two, but one's got a gun to my head, and the other's on a cell phone. Backup's comin'. All I want to do is warn Fate, warn him that Mercer double-crossed us and that some all-black suits will be waitin' for him when he gets to the docks. Instead, I let 'em pick me up off the ground and bind my hands with zip-ties, and lead me out o' the alley to their black car with black tinted windows. A bag goes over my head, and the rest from there's all dark.

The florescent light hits me in the face harder than the goon who actually hits me in the face soon as they take the bag off my head. I'm tied to a chair, and they knock me around for a while, and somewhere between punches I get a look around. The room's so white I feel like I'm floatin' at first, and the smell o' fresh paint makes my brain ache. 12 closed-fist hits in, my eyes adjust and I notice that the room's got these huge windows; not that it does me any good, all that you can see through 'em is a white hallway; painted concrete. I don't know why, but I got a sneakin' suspicion I'm underground. There's only one other person in the room besides me and the two bruisers makin' mashed 'taters out o' my face. He's a round, tiny man with glasses and a glossy dome of a bald head. He's got this smug little smile on his pouty lips, spittle collected at its edges, his fat cheeks all rosy and puffed up. I mightily want to slug that look right off his fat face. He clears his throat, and his goons' bloody fists stop mid-swing.

"Do you know who I am?" he sings. His voice sounds like a magpie's, all sharp and squeaky. I spit a bloody tooth out o' my mouth.

"I got a few guesses," I answer, and my voice feels rough in my throat, "My first'd be Aregor Priggs."

The little man claps his hands excitedly, his second chin jigglin' and his dimples pressin' into his face. "Ding ding ding ding!" he cries, his voice like a bell, "That's right, Mr. Graves. Would you like to hear what your prize is?"

I glare at him through my swollen eyes, and his smug smile makes me want to throw up...or maybe that was all the blood I'd swallowed. "I got a few guesses about that, too," I tell him, grimly. Priggs titters.

"I imagine you do. There's just one thing I love more than wife, Mr. Graves, and that's my money. You tried to snatch both from me; I don't take kindly to men taking what's mine." He was still smilin'. I can't tell you if I'm tryin' to save my own skin or if I'm still angry, but I rat Angie out to her old man...if you could call a pink lump flesh like that a man.

"Angie took _herself_ from you, Arry. She was sick o' your tiny dick so she was packin' herself off and takin' the only thing about you she loved with her," I growl at him, my lip curlin' up over what's left o' my blood-soaked teeth. Priggs' smile sours a little, but it ain't gone.

"Worry not, Mr. Graves. Sweet Angie has been punished for her indiscretion," Priggs wheezes, pushin' back the cuticles of his nails instead o' lookin' at me. I feel a little tug at my chest.

"...Is she dead?" I ask, a little afraid o' the answer. Inexplicably, Priggs bursts into a chirpin' laughter, his small, blue eyes sparklin' and his hand daintily coverin' his fat, pouty lips.

"Oh ho ho, certainly not..." he says, smilin', "But I'm sure she wishes she was."

I can't help it—even though Angie told me she'd planned on screwin' Fate and I out of our cut, on havin' us killed, I wouldn't have wished anythin' like that on her. I struggle in the chair, rockin' it on its legs and howlin' every curse I know when I catch someone in the corner o' my eye. They're in the hallway. Through those big windows I see two white-coats with badges and clipboards, and someone familiar between 'em, lookin' the other way down the hall. My gut sinks into my boots.

"Emil!" I howl out at him, hopin' the glass ain't soundproof, "They got me too, Emil - it was that snake Mercer, I know it was, he gave us up! This prick sent hit-men after us, they shot Angie and they got me, but I didn't tell 'em nothin'! Look, I'm sorry, I messed up, I know, but I'm gonna get us out o' this, just you..." I stop when Emil turns around and his hair don't move the way hair's supposed to. It moves like he's underwater...and it ain't black anymore, not that natural coffee black it used to be. It's black like a night sky: cloudy and purple, and his _eyes_—when he turns, I swear his eyes reflect at me the way a coyote's do, like mirrors; ike polished steel in high-beams. Men's eyes don't do that.

"Hells, Emil," I breathe as he walks in the room, flanked by the two geeks, "Wha...what did they _do_ to you?"

"Ah, Mr. Graves," chirps Priggs in his nasally sing-song voice, pleased as punch with himself, "Why, we only gave your friend Emilian what he's always desired: the power of magic. Infusing him with such a power in exchange for your life was certainly a steal on his end, but I was motivated buyer. Emil's a changed man, as you can see; in fact he tells me he's even taken a new name. Mr. Graves, meet..._Twisted_ Fate."

I look over to Emilian because I can't believe it.

"Emil, you...you ratted me out? You turned your coat for this _swine_?"

"Of course I did, you dimwitted fool," Fate whispers, "That was always your problem, Malcolm Graves; you made it too personal. You liked that girl, and that made your head soft. If you'd been thinking, you would have known better than to steal from a man like Mr. Priggs. He's too powerful. Haven't you figured out by now that the house always wins?"

Fate takes a step or two forward, then in a snap—in the blink of an eye—he's just _gone_. The leftover sound of energy all bunched up and then let go is bouncin' off the whitewashed walls and I get this unnervin', ticklin' feelin' on the back o' my neck, like when your leg wakes back up. Pins and needles. A small, gloved hand lands on my shoulder, and that espresso voice is behind me, an echo in it that weren't ever there before.

"You forgot too quick and too often that ours was just an arrangement of convenience. Oddly enough, your artless charlatanry and weakness for women worked out pretty well for me—I never would have been offered this opportunity otherwise," Fate says, calm and quiet as he walks around to face me, hair flowin' too-slow behind him, his face lookin' uncommonly peaceful. "You might even say it was destiny; and like you always said, Malcolm Graves...you don't mess with destiny."

"I'll kill you!" I bellow at him, rockin' my seat from leg to leg and strainin' against my bonds until they rub my skin off, "I'm gonna blow your damn block off, you dirty, rotten snake!" I hate how the hurt seeps out in my voice. Not the physical pain—the hurt in my chest that proves I'd trusted this two-faced scoundrel; from two drinks worth to two years worth o' trust that he kicked me in the teeth with. That smile on his face tells me what a joke it all was; what a joke I am. What kind o' conman lets himself get conned?

I feel the rage boilin' in my chest, and I grit my teeth and growl like a dog that's been beat mean. "Enjoy Aregor's prison, Malcolm Graves," says Fate, "I hear it's...stimulating." He grins and turns his back on me. I bellow at him as he walks away...as Priggs' men start to take me away.

"I'll get you for this, Fate! I don't care if it takes the rest o' my days...you're goin' to pay, you hear? _You're goin' to pay!_"

**Epilogue**

"Yes, sir, it's ready!" chirped Delora over the phone, cheerful as could be, "Today? Why, certainly! Today will be fine...I'll let Mejesca know." The young girl made to give him a warm farewell and tell him she was looking forward to his arrival, but the other end hung up before she could get the words out. She sighed as only an 11-year-old girl can sigh, with spectacularly naive admiration.

She hung the old cloth-roped phone back on the hook, thinking how very mysterious it was of him to hang up on her, and hopped down from the stool. She nearly skipped to the back room, stopping first in front of a sheet of polished metal to make sure her hair and clothing were perfectly in place. As she opened the splintered-thin door, a loud crash roared through the room, and a puff of soot and smoke blasted her entire front. Two large, russet eyes reopened in a face caked with grey ash, glaring at her sister.

In front of her stood a tall, wiry woman with a mop of curly black hair in skintight leather pants and a jacket that was almost exclusively sleeves. Her back was to Delora, and she was holding the grip of an enormous mounted gun, powered by some sort of engine. It puttered down to silence, spitting a bit more smoke, and the woman whooped, staring down the long hallway at what had previously been a mannequin in a museum-quality 16th-century ballgown. Now it was just a pair of legs and a hoop skirt of scorched, brocaded velvet ruffles.

"Beautiful! Just beautiful! I'll call it... 'The Halfwit Beau Monde! ...number 5'. Oh! Hello, Delora..." Mejesca pulled her huge goggles up to the top of her head, a halo of black soot framing her eyes. She looked her little sister up and down. " My, you're filthy!"

Delora groaned and rolled her eyes as only an 11-year-old girl can groan and roll her eyes, with utterly unmasked frustration and disdain, then marched away from the door and over to the work table where an enormous shotgun sat on a display rack. Mejesca stopped her.

"Wait a moment...why...why, it's beautiful! Exquisite! A perfect contrast to the disgusting opulence of the upper class, created in concert—in the same moment in time!" Mejesca was marvelling at Delora's silhouette, left on the door in soot, "I'll call it... 'Vignette Noir de le Petite Enfant!' Perfection, Delora, utter perfection! A true sororal collaboration!"

"Yeah, yeah," Delora said, reaching her small, thin arms around the huge, heavy shotgun. Mejesca squealed and rushed over to her.

"Don't touch it!" she moaned, "That one's dangerous, my dear, very dangerous..."

"I've been in the shop since I could walk, Mejesca; I know how to handle a gun," Delora groaned. Mejesca shook her head.

"Not the gun, Sister, not the gun. The one it belongs to," the woman said in a whisper. Delora bit her lip.

"You mean Mr. Graves? He just called. He said he's coming in today to pick it up." Mejesca nodded, speaking mostly to herself.

"Good, good," she said, "He can take it out of here. It has his soul, that gun; it's the darkest thing I've ever made. I see in it his amber eyes, focused but empty. Nothing in it but gunpowder and rage. I will feel better to be rid of it."

"You're exaggerating," Delora told her, checking the safety then teetering as she lifted the thing, "I think he's nice."

"All the nice has been engineered out," Mejesca stated grimly, "We'll sell him the gun and then get him out. Don't push the warranty on this one, either—I don't want him coming back here." Delora grumped, sticking out her lower lip; selling him the warranty was precisely what she'd planned to do. The little girl had taken strongly to the gruff, old cowboy right around the time her sister had pronounced her marked dislike of him. That was 3 weeks ago. It was the longest crush Delora had ever had.

Mejesca made Delora wait until she took the door off its hinges and placed it lovingly next to "The Halfwit Beau Monde, Number 5." Delora sighed and grunted, hugging the huge, heavy shotgun to her breast as she walked it to the front of the store and dropped it unceremoniously onto the counter with a cacophonous clatter. She hoisted herself up on on the stool and sat there, bored, for an exceptionally long minute. The sun shone too-bright in from the large shop windows, dust motes floating lazily in and out if sight. Backwards, from the inside, Delora read the shop's name painted on the window: yrnopeaW motsuC s'acsejeM.

Mejesca's Custom Weaponry.

Delora sighed, rolled her eyes, kicked her feet, then at last caught a glimpse of herself in the polished sheet metal. She gasped, suddenly remembering the soot caked on her face, and was furiously rubbing it out with her sleeve when the jingle of the bell on the shopfront door rang.

She spun around, and upon seeing the familiar, barrel-chested cowboy stride into the shop, dived down behind the counter. There was no way she could let him see her like _this_. She could hear the spurs on his boots jangling like pockets full of change as he walked. There was a long pause.

"Hey!" he barked in a gruff, low voice, "Anyone here?" He walked, slowly, up to the counter, and Delora could hear the almost silent ring of his calloused fingers caressing the steel of the shotgun just above her. Wood creaked as he leaned forward over the counter. Hesitantly, she looked up to see him pulling off a pair of dark sunglasses. His eyes were a dull amber color. "Hello," he said to her. She blushed.

"Hello, Mr. Graves," she answered, frozen. Thankfully, her sister's foosteps clacked across the wood floor, rescuing her in part from the excruciating humiliation that only an 11-year-old girl found covered in soot found hiding under a counter by the love of her life can truly appreciate. Mejesca put her hands on her hips when she found Delora.

"Hiding from our customer, Delora?" the woman asked, not unkindly, "I don't blame you." Mejesca helped the girl up from the ground and wiped off her hands with a rag, eying Malcolm Graves with suspicion.

The man was tall, with greasy, salt-and-pepper hair and a thick, bristly moustache. His face was craggy with wrinkles and scars. He had a newspaper tucked under one arm, which he put down on the counter, slipping a fat, lit cigar between his lips as he lifted the huge shotgun up into his arms, almost cradling it. Mejesca watched him carefully, holding Delora's arm a little too tightly. She did not like this man, who eyed the gun she made with intense desire and admiration; no man had ever looked at Mejesca the way Malcolm Graves looked at that gun. There was something fiercely focused behind those eyes of his. Focused, but dead; there wasn't a man left in that man-shaped body—only a goal. An end.

"It's the whole package; 4 bore, double-barrel, pump-action. Had to put in some experimental EM rail propulsion to get the range you asked for," she said, "Your total comes to-"

Before Mejesca could finish, Graves popped off the safety and the gun whirred to life, the mag-yellow electricity crawling like spiders between the barrels and the receiver, charging the magazine. The light glinted against his white teeth when his lip curled up in a small but viperous smirk. Mejesca shuddered.

"15 large," she said bluntly, wanting him out and as far away from her and her sister as possible. Without looking away from the shotgun, Graves rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth and reached into his pocket, tossing a thick stack of bills to her. Mejesca took it, cursorily counting out the other half of her commission, keeping one eye on the man. When she was relatively sure there was 15,000 credits in the stack, she pocketed it.

"Say, Mr. Graves!" peeped Delora, "A fine gun like that should have a name, you know? What do you think you'll call-"

"Destiny," Graves answered, too quickly. The tone of his voice made Mejesca shutter. Even Delora shrank a bit.

"...why Destiny?" the girl asked, querulously. Graves' eyes shot down to the newspaper on the counter, perfunctorily scanning the article about the League's newest chosen champion, sponsored by the DynaTech corporation, a man known only as _Twisted Fate_. There was a grainy, black and white photo of him; he wore a large hat, and had long hair that didn't sit around his shoulders the way hair ought to sit; had eyes that didn't look how man's eyes ought to look.

"Because," Graves answered, hefting the shotgun onto his shoulder, slipping the cigar from his lips and extinguishing the cherry directly on the face of the man in the photo, "You don't mess with 'Destiny'."

The three sat in silence for a few long moments, Mejesca grasping her sister's arm, frozen with fear at what she saw in the man's pale eyes. Delora swallowed, and finally broke the silence.

"Can I interest you in an extended warranty?"


End file.
